Dead, black eyes leave your senses cold. The presence of Death is palatable. Beneath the armors he wears, his grey-green skin is drawn tight to scarred bones. Every muscle and sinew is visable through his decay. Weapons hang freely from his sides, all of them blood stained and notched. He bears the mark of Time, engraved upon his chestplate and spaulders. Once a great Troll amongst the legions of Lord Cyric, a disease ate away slowly at his body until death encompassed him. Again he has arisen, leading armies of the living against the opposing forces. Contripuntal sounds of bone and determination reverberate with every lanky step, all while foaming retorts in a grossly mauled language shoot from his mouth like boulders falling on a halfling. With the new era upon us and the madness fading, Zeltor walks forward with a tried and true demeanor all while reaping the fields of the coming war. Vector has been tipping the power too long... Doma is gone but this transgression shall not be Forgotten.
We are a government. We have no care for your religion. You are free to worship any God, Goddess, or tree you so desire. We will offer you sanctuary within our lands for your ceremonies but we are not concerned with your deity.
